


Careful Clumsiness

by Methuselah87



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 2012, Idiots, M/M, Memory Loss, Warlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Methuselah87/pseuds/Methuselah87
Summary: Crowley is assigned a secret weapon  in 2012 to use against Aziraphale to keep him away from Warlock, but to try and avoid it actually killing the angel, they make a series of mistakes that end up serving them quite well indeed.





	1. Chapter 1

            So as it turns out, there was quite a bit of things in the many old lives of Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale that have eluded the very important plot in _Good Omens_. There was a lot to say on the subject of Armageddon, and I don’t need to explain to you how hard it was to condense it into just one little book, but there was definitely more to it. Nothing pertaining to that plot was excluded – by all means, I think I got all of _that_ \- but there was a lot of other fun being had by our star-crossed lovers before all that. Being all-knowing and everything, I figured that it was time to show another little piece of their past, if only to shed some light on their current predicament.

             I’m sure you’ll find it as interesting as I did.

            It was late May in 2012. The daylight had been effortlessly wasted by the demon Crowley. His vibrant auburn hair had caught barely a ray of the sun despite the oddly good weather that had graced London for the past few weeks, and currently it was just above shoulder length and tossed over the arm of a black couch. His sunglasses, as much a part of him as his skin, were folded neatly on the side table. His eyes were closed. Lounging in his best red satin robe, it seemed by all accounts that he’d fallen asleep listening to his tape deck again. It was clicking gently from across the room as he slept, breathing deeply, undisturbed and at peace.

            Blaring noise from the telephone on the desk woke him. His yellow snake eyes flickered around the room, taking in his surroundings, and his chest heaved with his first deep breath in hours. He sauntered over to the desk in bare feet and picked the phone up off the cradle, pressing it to his ear. “Yes?” He mumbled into the line. A reply came. For a moment, he paused, his sleep-addled brain just a little behind the rest of him. He struggled to gather his words. “You… want me to _what?_ ” He sputtered.

            By the time Crowley got behind the wheel of his Bently, he was polished, poised, and his hair half-tied back to keep it out of his face. His round sunglasses covered his eyes like two black coals. The sun was about to go down over London. It was brilliantly bright and pink, the last rays of daylight touching his skin as he adjusted the rearview mirror to watch it disappear over the horizon. Without hesitation, the car radio crackled to life.

            “You sure took your time,” the car radio muttered in the voice of Hastur, Duke of Hell.

            “Perfection takes time – besides, I’m on holiday,” Crowley said, which was actually the truth. He’d been Warlock’s nanny for about five or six years now. The family often gave him up to two weeks of holiday annually which he often spent it gambling or watching _Supernatural_ , but this time, he’d yearned for the busy streets of London. He’d only arrived a day prior. “I’m here for the new assignment. You said something about…?”

            “An experiment.” Hastur sounded smug. “Since you’re doing so well, the high-ups decided to include you in a little trial of our new secret weapon.”

            “Is that so?” Crowley was intrigued. “What kind of weapon?”

            “It’s a secret, you idiot,” Hastur hissed.

            “R-Right. So… who do I use it on, exactly?”

            “It only works on celestial beings.”

            Crowley’s pulse quickened. “You want me to use it on an angel?”

            “Precisely.”

            “How am I to lure one out?” Crowley asked innocently.

            “Don’t be coy, Crowley. Your reports about the angel Aziraphale are very clear.”

            Crowley silently cursed himself for padding the report, as he always did, to lie about his truly abysmal demonic activities. Juggling the child between himself and the angel was enough work without having to remember that their… agreement… was a secret.

            Hastur didn’t seem to notice any of this. “The Anti-Christ is in his very formative years, and if that angel coaxes him into the light, all of our plans for Armageddon will go up in flames. Use the weapon on him, Crowley. It will be delivered to you tonight at midnight.”

            “When am I supposed to use it, exactly? And how does the bloody thing even work? I’m a celestial being, too, you know!”

            “You will SEE!” Hastur snapped. “It comes with instructions. Just try not to blow it up in your face.”

            “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Crowley grinned.

_“Crowley-”_

            “Righto!” Crowley interrupted. “Thanks for that! I can’t wait to test out this new secret weapon – bye now!” He turned the radio off before releasing the huge breath he’d been holding. Folding his hands on the steering wheel, he cushioned his forehead on them slowly. The panic poisoning his blood began to subside. “Shit,” he whispered.

            The roar of the Bently upset a flock of pigeons on the sidewalk as he tore down the roads of London at 90mph, the last light of the day dimming to grey. It was time to give his rival a friendly visit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            The angel Aziraphale, who took pleasure in food, comfort, and books, stood in his white suit in the window of his bookshop watching night approach. His eyes were softly green, his hair curly white-blond, his pale complexion was gently creased with age, and his face was the picture of contentment. He was as pleased as punch to be able to visit the shop like this. Although he got significantly less time off than he’d like, therefore much less time to tend to his collection, the time that he did get, he savored. He had very much missed his cocoa and his armchair this past year. Often he dreamt up was to renovate it when he was spending another long night reading in the ambassador’s family library. Although, once he returned, he was so overwhelmed by nostalgia and love that he couldn’t find the heart to change a thing. Even the messy papers piled on every chair and desk brought a tear to his eye.

_Ah,_ he thought. _Home._

            The roar of a car pulling up to the curb shattered his peace. It was Crowley’s black Bently. Aziraphale’s heart did its little hop-skip as Crowley emerged from the vehicle, waving from the street, unsmiling. There was something in the demon’s forbidden fruit that enticed the angel to bastardry. He should resist it, he knew, but it was too much fun having a rival; he just couldn’t help himself. Aziraphale turned as the bell over the door rang and in came Crowley.

            “You look so different out of character, Crowley,” the angel commented, studying Crowley’s masculine look. The hair, the suit, the swagger… It was jarring considering the fact that Crowley had been masquerading as a female nanny for years.

            “Angel!” Crowley sneered. “I can finally miss your hideous bucked teeth.”

            Self-consciously, the angel touched his face. “It’s a disguise!” He said defensively. “What are you doing here, anyway? It’s our holiday!”

            “Don’t you think I know that?” Crowley shot back. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here, but we have a problem.”

            “Which is?”

            “I’m supposed to make an attempt on your life,” Crowley said quietly. “Soon.”

            A _thunk_ sounded behind them, and the celestial couple glanced over to see an old man with an armful of books staring at them openly. He gently placed the books on the countertop and edged towards the door. Neither of them took their eyes off the man until he was scuttling away down the sidewalk, empty handed and red as a tomato. The other customers barely noticed.

            Aziraphale looked at Crowley anxiously. “Whatever do you mean?”

            Baring his teeth, Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m meant to use… a weapon… on you.” Aziraphale glanced at his hands, and the demon sighed in annoyance, showing him his empty palms. “I haven’t got it _now!_ They’re delivering it in five hours. To my flat.”

            “At midnight?” Aziraphale asked. “Precisely?”

            “Precisely.” Crowley repeated. “So, what do you propose we do?”

            “Not kill me. Obviously.”

            “Obviously!” Crowley burst. “But what do I do to get them off my back?! They’re going to want a reason why you’re still walking about, mucking up their pans for Warlock and all that, whether I figure out how to use the weapon properly or not!”

            “Using it properly…” The angel said to himself, touching his chin. He glanced out the window as the grey sky darkened. Slowly, he slid his eyes over to his reflection in Crowley’s glasses, studying it as if it were a mirror. “But you don’t _have_ to use it properly.”

            The demon arched an eyebrow. “Come again?”

            Aziraphale waved him into the back of the shop and herded out the rest of the customers. He had a spat with a little girl intent on taking a biblical text from him, and he ended up having to offer her a pamphlet of Hawaii instead. When the humans had vacated the premises he came to the back with a light in his eyes. “What kind of weapon is it?” He asked.

            “A secret one.” Crowley flopped down on the couch.

            “You’ve no idea what it is?”

            “Or how it works. Hastur said something about it coming with instructions.”

            “Right,” Aziraphale slapped his fist into his palm. “So all you’ve got to do is use it improperly.”

            The slackened confusion on Crowley’s face was exaggerated greatly over his tanned face. “You want me to still use it, just… improperly?” He pursed his lips. “I suppose I’ve got some experience with improper usage.”

            Sitting in the armchair, folding his hands in his lap, the angel bobbed his head in agreement. “No matter what it is, if you’ve never used one you’re bound to make mistakes, right? Why not just… make a mistake on purpose?”

            “But what if that mistake is actually not a mistake and I end up using it properly by accident?”

            “Crowley, it comes with instructions, doesn’t it?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then don’t follow them.”

            Surprise turned Crowley’s mouth into an O. “Ooooohhhhh,” he said, quite fittingly. “You’re a clever one, you are. Anybody ever tell you that?”

            “Never,” Aziraphale admitted. “Not even once.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a playlist for the fanfiction. It goes from music they would probably like into 2012 garbage to set the tone. Godspeed.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLVW2mN5EV_l62ZHi1GGqMxTxbunl-KUxc

          Too nervous to eat, Aziraphale and Crowley went back to the demon’s flat. Both of them were nervously watching the clock tick. Midnight was still a long ways off. Immortals experienced time differently than humans did but no matter who you are, when you’re dreading something, time will slow to a crawl. Aziraphale opened the blinds in Crowley’s living room. The view was quite nice. He was only on the fourth floor, but the angel could see the tops of the buildings for quite a few miles and the block itself was attractively designed. He watched the lamps all turn on at once in the street with a rigidity to his spine. It was beginning to rain. If they didn’t do this right he could be discorporated and _that_ would be a nightmare. He’d never hurt this body badly enough to need a new one. He honestly didn’t know how to make another, or if he could ever return to this plane of existence as he was now. If he never found out, that would be just fine with Aziraphale.

          The angel glanced at Crowley who was pacing before his tape deck struggling to pick the right one to play. Their relationship had always been a strong one. No matter what state it was in they always felt it rather keenly, mostly because they were the only two celestial beings who liked to fraternize, and also because there was a certain comfort in knowing that there was someone just like you out there making all the same mistakes as you, just in very different and more dangerous ways. Aziraphale smiled. He was normally the one making the bad choices. Crepes, flaming swords, misplaced miracles, and many other things had gotten him into trouble with the higher-ups. Crowley had his fair share of bad choices, too. The Nazi betrayal had been an absolute fiasco - but so had the holy water heist. At least they could be blundering fools together.

          “How much time left?” Aziraphale spoke up from the window.

          “Still three hours,” Crowley muttered, staring at five tapes in his hand.

          The angel walked over to him and touched the yellow case. “Try this one.”

          Crowley eyed him. “You know them?”

          “Absolutely not. You’ve just been staring at them for thirty minutes.”

          “Right. Okay.” Crowley opened the case with a pencil sketch of Icarus on it and put the black tape in the tape deck, clicking the play button. _No One But You_ by Queen began to play. He put the other tapes back carefully. His tape, CD, and vinyl collection was meticulously arranged by genre and artist, and sub-ordered by the date of release. Standing with his hands on his hips, he looked at it hard and got the sudden urge to re-arrange it completely.

          Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” he said encouragingly. “Come sit.”

 _Is it raining in Heaven?_ The speakers sang. The two of them sat on the couch side by side. Crowley pushed up his sunglasses and rubbed his face. “If I mess this up-”

          “You won’t,” Aziraphale said shortly.

          “But if I _do_ ,” Crowley pressed. “I’ll find a way to fix things. I promise.”

          “Crowley.” The angel looked at him. “You’d do that? For me?”

          “’Course I would. You haven’t done anything to deserve that. Yet,” he tossed in, and they laughed. Crowley put aside his glasses. “You could leave it to me, you know.”

          Aziraphale gave him a questioning look.

          “It’s not safe for you to be here when it arrives. I can call you later with the details.”

          “Not a chance. I want to see this ‘secret weapon’ with my own two eyes.” Aziraphale huffed. “Trying to get rid of me indeed.”

          Crowley cracked a grin. “Pansy.”

          “Fiend.”

          Lifting himself off the couch, Crowley went to his liquor cabinet. “I need a drink.” He poured himself a glass of wine. “Want one?”

          The angel shuffled a bit. Despite the possibly precarious position they may be in after midnight, he had no desire to see it through sober. “I don’t see why not.” Aziraphale’s bright eyes caught the flair of Crowley’s raised pinkie as he poured the angel’s wine into a crystal goblet. In an attempt to ease the tense mood, Aziraphale got up to take off his coat and folded it neatly before crossing the room to stand with Crowley. He accepted the filled goblet. “To good luck,” he said, offering a toast to the demon.

          Crowley clinked their glasses. “To good luck.”

          They took a draft of wine each before pausing to admire the view from the window. Dark was the night sky, as speckled with stars as the freckles on a ginger child and as silent and heavy as a declaration of war. Crowley swallowed his drink before pouring another. Aziraphale was lost in thought for a long time. The demon drank two more glasses within the hour and settled to nursing the fifth, leaving to anxiously stalk around the flat. An hour passed, then another, and soon the third was fast approaching its conclusion. Aziraphale was on his third glass of wine by then. He was pleasantly relaxed and a bit warm but not at all impaired, and he went to find Crowley and make him sit down until the package had properly arrived. He found him sitting at a white piano staring at the keys. He had recently swapped the Queen tape out for a Simon and Garfunkel tape. It sang gently in the background about rocks and islands. Coaxing Crowley back to the living room, he and Aziraphale they sat close together for comfort, sipping their wine in unison.

          It seemed as though the damn thing would never be delivered. Crowley was beginning to think he’d been pranked when, at last, the doorbell rang. Aziraphale hid in the closet as Crowley scrambled for the front door. He yanked it open. A young demon with a centipede on his head and a dirty, scarred face held out a little black box. “For you, Crowley,” he groused. His eyes were like twin tar pits. His mouth was a scratch in his face.

          “Berith!” Crowley exclaimed. “It’s been ages! How’s the bickering going?”

          The demon Berith, whose specialty was coaxing men into homicide and petty quarrels, often the former before the latter, blinked at Crowley slowly and with little recognition. “Well.” He said simply. “Shall we recount the deeds of the day?”

          “Right, of course, Hail Satan and all that.” Crowley took the box under his arm and grinned.

          “Hm.” Berith glanced furtively over Crowley’s shoulder. He noticed the folded white coat on the arm of the black couch, and looked curiously at Crowley, who was dressed all in black. “Today I tempted a man to quarrel with his wife. She hit him, and he picked up a hammer killed her in cold blood. They had been married for forty nine years. Their fiftieth anniversary was supposed to be tomorrow.”

          This horrendous bit of news threw Crowley off. He was violently against murder or killing of any kind, but the especially violet and scary ones were his least favorite. In fact, he felt as though he might be sick. The two demons locked eyes, snakes and tar, and finally Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. “Well,” he began. “I tempted an entire corporation of people to ignore their oil change lights this year, and now every single one of their vehicles have exploded within a week.”

          Berith looked impressed. “Any casualties?”

          “Unfortunately not.” Crowley cleared his throat. “But their company does influence marketing. I’m sure we’ll get quite a few laughs out of the billboards they attempt to plaster along the M25 with only 10% of their work force.”

          “Ah.” Berith’s face could have been carved from stone. “Next time, maybe cause a few deaths. For our Master.”

          “Right, sure.”

          Berith stared at him for an awkward amount of time before turning and gliding away, vanishing into the dim light of the corridor. Crowley watched him go. Never for the niceties, demons. He shut the door with extreme care. Then he stood listening for the fade of Berith’s footsteps until he was sure he wasn’t going to turn around and come back.

          “Is he gone?” Came Aziraphale’s muffled voice.

          “Yes, yes,” Crowley muttered. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled open the closet door. Aziraphale was hiding amongst his best jackets, looking very afraid that the person who had opened the door was not his friendly rival. “It’s me. Look, I have it.”

          Aziraphale glanced at the black box Crowley offered him and turned it down politely. “I’d rather not handle it, if you don’t mind. It _is_ meant for me.” He stepped around Crowley. Fixing his bowtie, his jaw dropped when the demon walked over to the table. “You’re just going to open it?!” He cried.

          “Relax!” Crowley called. “I need the instructions, remember?” He inspected the box. It was black wood with a flimsy latch. It had scorch marks on its perfectly smooth surface, and it smelled of chemicals. When he touched it, he felt slimy. He exhaled quickly. This was not good.

          Aziraphale grabbed his arm. “Wait! Don’t be so hasty! It could be a-”

          “What?” Crowley said sarcastically. “A bomb?” He flipped the latch.

          As soon as the box was no longer restrained, it popped open like a jack-in-the-box and exploded like a bomb, blowing them back onto the couch. The particles of the box turned into a cloud that engulfed them both in mint-colored mist and, as quickly as it had appeared, it dissipated. No trace of the strange package remained save for the smell of fire and brimstone.

 

* * *

 

 

          Berith paused on the threshold of the elevator, turning back just as Crowley shut his door. He blinked. “I hope he turned it over first,” he muttered. “The instructions were on the bottom.” He gave a shrug. The elevator doors slid gently closed, and he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

            The oddest sensation woke Crowley from his sleep. He groaned and stretched. It felt as though he’d been hit by a clown car covered in jelly, and not in a pleasant way. Every muscle in his body was sore, every fiber of his being was rattled, and even as he struggled to gain consciousness he was painfully aware of every small nook and cranny of his body being in pain. He sat up, lethargic, and rubbed his face. What had happened? Why did he feel like this? Squinting up at the room, he felt cold. Whose house was this?

            “What a night,” he grumbled. _Wait_ , he thought, and paused to rack his brain for his previous whereabouts. _What?_ Crowley, not even having retained his own name, had completely forgotten who he was. He sat in stunned silence. Emptiness echoed within him. His entire history, every bit of it, had been wiped out. The only thing left was the impression that he was very old, very hungover, and very, very confused. When he looked down at his hands he was surprised to see them barely wrinkled. _But aren’t I… an old man?_ He felt sick. _What in God’s name happened to me?_ When he felt a sting at thinking about the word God, he recoiled.

            A soft groan from the couch beside Crowley made him jump. He whirled to see another man beside him, also emerging from sleep. Crowley panicked. Who was this? Why was he here? He glanced around, frantic. It looked to be just barely eleven in the morning, in a very expensive flat, but the more he compared it to the man beside him the more confused he became. Why was a soft blond in a beige suit in this strange, dark place, of all places? More importantly, why was _Crowley_ here? He sat frozen, gripping the arm of the couch, as the other man blinked blearily at his surroundings just as he had.

            “That’s odd,” the other man mumbled. “I don’t recall drinking last night.” He winced and touched his temple. “I’ve a splitting headache…”

            Crowley cleared his throat. Gasping, the other man’s eyes snapped to him and he seemed to hold his breath in fright. A twist in Crowley’s heart happened when he noticed how green those big eyes were. “W-Who are you, again?” He managed awkwardly.

            “I’m…” The other man’s jaw slackened. “I don’t rightfully know. I can’t quite remember.”

            Crowley’s subconscious flickered. He parted his lips. “Azi,” he breathed. “Aza… Azir… Ang… Azarad…” He cursed. “I feel like I know your name somehow.”

            “What’s going on?” The other man asked, sitting up and smoothing his outfit.

            “I’m… not sure. I’m just as confused as you are.”

             “Please be merciful – this isn’t amusing a’ tall!”

            Crowley threw up his hands. “I’m serious!”

            The other man stared at him. “Oh, my.” He seemed like he might faint. “I don’t like this.”

            “Me either.” Crowley carefully got up, testing his legs. “I feel like I’ve been hurt but I can’t remember how.”

            “I do, too!” The other man cried. “Maybe we both were!”

            “But… how? Why?”

            The soft man looked as though he might cry. “I don’t know!”

            “Whoa there!” Crowley sat down beside him. “Buck up! We’re alright, aren’t we? No need to get upset.”

            “Of _course_ I should be upset! I can’t even remember my own name!” The man burst out. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face as tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. Quietly, he wept.

            Crowley touched the man’s shoulder kindly. “Come, now, don’t cry. It’ll be alright.”

            Somehow, despite the fact that Aziraphale could barely recall the ring of goodness and love he used to inhabit, he felt acutely comforted by the touch of this stranger. The weight of Crowley’s hand felt… familiar. Even the soft lilt of his voice was like a breath of fresh air in a sauna. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. For the first time, he really, truly looked at him, and he almost shat himself. “Your eyes…!” He whispered. “They’re like snake’s eyes!”

            “They’re what?”

            “Look and see!”

            Crowley sprang up from the couch and went to a mirror. He scared himself with what he saw in it. “By the devil, you’re right! They’re positively yellow!” _And I’m was fantastically handsome,_ he thought aside to himself, impressed.

            “W-What are mine?” Aziraphale cried.       

            Crowley’s brain fritzed. “They’re…” He turned back to the other man. “Green. Normal green.”

            Heaving a sigh of relief, Aziraphale melted back onto the couch, handkerchief clutched in his hands. “God bless.”

            Crowley put his hands on his hips. He twisted up his face in concentration. “You don’t remember me?”

            “No, I’m sorry that I don’t. Why?” The man asked curiously.

            “Because I…” Crowley swallowed. “I feel as though... I’ve known you all my life.”

            Aziraphale’s face softened significantly. “Have you?”

            “I think so.”

            “Then… what’s my name?”

            “Azzi,” Crowley said. “Azira-something. Azzi.”

            “I see. Azzi.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Doesn’t feel quite right, but… it does sound familiar.”

            “What about me?”

            “Hm?”

            “Do you know _my_ name?”

            Aziraphale stared at him. “I…” Now, angels don’t normally get blasphemous feelings, and when they do, normally they’re immediately discarded. But Aziraphale had been quite naughty over the years with his demon friend and those channels in his brain were much more fluid than the rest of him. He could remember nothing, of course, but he did feel something when he looked at the demon – feelings that frightened him. His face seemed to flicker through a series of conflicting emotions. “Crowley.”

            Crowley looked shocked. “You got that right off the bat?!”

            Blushing, Aziraphale looked away. “I haven’t the slightest,” he muttered. “It could be wrong for all we know.”

            “No, that’s my name! Spot-on, it is!” Crowley exclaimed.

            “Really?” Aziraphale pretended to be shocked. “How interesting!” He couldn’t fathom right now why he was feeling so many emotions for this tall dark and handsome stranger he’d just met – or seemingly, previously known – but it was distressing for him to feel out of control about it.

            Crowley went to him quickly. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” He offered his hand. “Are you alright?”

            Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Quite.” He accepted the hand and got to his feet, gasping in surprise at the pains he felt. “I say! What _did_ we do last night?”

            Their eyes met. An insinuation passed between them, and they looked each other up and down briefly, wondering how on earth it could be possible to have made love fully clothed, but since both of them were spick and span, they discarded the idea. Crowley shrugged. “Maybe we were in a car accident?” He suggested.

            Aziraphale nodded. “Maybe.”

            “I’m going to do some snooping,” Crowley said suddenly. “Please – don’t leave just yet, if you can.”

            “Why would I?” Aziraphale flushed. “I mean… I’ve nowhere else to go.” Crowley bobbed his head absently before vanishing into the other room. Aziraphale, feeling quite out of sorts, went into the kitchen in search of breakfast. He found a fully stocked fridge, plenty of bread, and fruits and vegetables he’d never seen before decorating the counter. Needless to say, he helped himself.

            Crowley found nothing definitive in the flat at all. It looked simply as though someone had set this whole flat up as a filming location. There was no paperwork, no photographs, and no money of any kind – simply plants, music, and a large television and sound system. Whoever had lived here, they weren’t normal at all. When he opened the bedroom closet, he saw more of his same outfit in different shades of grey, black, and even red and white, and got extreme whiplash. So it was _his_ flat! These were _his_ weirdly empty drawers, _his_ spotless bathroom, and _his_ rumpled master bed? How did one live like this?

            When he went back to find Azzi, Crowley spotted him sitting at the table with a napkin tucked in his collar and a small fruitful spread about him. He felt hesitant himself about the idea of eating. But what man didn’t get hungry? “Much to eat?” He joked, pulling out a chair next to Aziraphale.

            “Tons!” Aziraphale said. “I quite enjoy the soufflé, but I can’t imagine how one would cook it in a kitchen with no appliances!”

            “Maybe it’s take-away,” Crowley suggested.

            “Did you find anything?”

            Nodding, Crowley popped a grape in his mouth. “This is my flat.”

            Aziraphale started. “Did you remember, or…?”

            “No! Not a’ tall. I found all my clothes. They’re just… this,” he said, indicating his current outfit. “Can’t imagine wearing anything else, but I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t own anything else.”

            Aziraphale chewed and swallowed a bite of bread before indicating the vast music collection. “Quite the fanatic, are we?”

            “Apparently.” Crowley popped open the tape deck and removed the Simon and Garfunkel tape. He inspected it carefully. “Seems I like this kind of thing.”

            “So… if this is your flat… why am I here?”

            “I dunno. Maybe you’re my friend, visiting.”

            “Maybe I live here, too,” Aziraphale said, unconvincingly.

            “No. Sorry.” Crowley sat back down with him. “None of your things are anywhere to be found, I’m afraid.”

            Aziraphale looked crestfallen. Partially because he didn’t belong here, and partially because he’d hoped that he would. “I see.”

            Touching his hand, Crowley gave a smile. “Don’t worry! We’ll figure things out, you and me.”

           Aziraphale gulped as that torrent of emotions washed over him again. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to figure things out.


	4. Chapter 4

            “Say,” Crowley spoke up. “You’ve been looking a bit green. Are you alright?”

            “Hm?” Aziraphale asked. “Green?”

             They stepped outside the apartment building and onto the sidewalk, gazing all around them for some semblance of who they were. It was a cloudy day, nothing too important going on, but just like any other day it had limitless potential to be either very enticing or entirely disappointing. A beautiful old car stood parked nearby that they gravitated towards curiously. It was a black Bentley.

            Crowley stared at Aziraphale, in his sunglasses and a fresh black suit. He leaned on the Bentley. “Yeah, Azzi, _green_. Don’t look like that - I can tell you’re a bad liar.”

            Refusing to look at him, Aziraphale swallowed. “I’ve been experiencing some things that I think link me to who I was.”

            “Really?”

            “It’s like… emotions,” Aziraphale explained. “Lots of them.”

            Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “For what reason?”

            Aziraphale felt panic flood his veins. “It’s personal.”

            “Come on! I can help you figure it out!”

            “Sir?” Came a new voice, and they turned to see a young boy in a uniform holding a very old looking key. He was looking directly at Crowley. “Your keys.”

            “My…?” Crowley glanced between the boy and the car. “Oh. Right, okay.” He accepted the keys, and the boy turned on his heel and walked back inside without another word, leaving them gaping at the car. Their eyes met. “I guess I can drive.”

            “No!” Aziraphale snatched the keys. “No way! If you can’t remember this was your car, you damn well shouldn’t drive it!” He felt a sharp pain at the swear word and groaned angrily. “I can’t even swear properly!” He cried.

            Crowley was staring at Aziraphale when he looked up. The demon was starting to wonder just what kind of relationship they’d had before. Not only did they have a specific dynamic but he was beginning to have feelings of his own for this soft, flustered man – feelings he didn’t think he could feel before. He opened the Bentley’s door and slid inside to break the tension. He felt at home behind the wheel. _How odd_ , he thought.

            Aziraphale, indignant, got into the passenger’s side with his hands tightly bound in his lap, clutching the keys. He was quite vulnerable without his memory to explain away what he was going through. What he really needed was a cup of tea and his bookshop, but he couldn’t remember either pleasures at the moment. When Crowley held out his hand, the angel sighed and handed the keys over. “Just… don’t go too fast for me, Crowley.”

            Those words brought a spark to the touch of their hands. Crowley sat stiff for a moment, keys in his palm, his heart beating against his ribcage like a fluttering bird. His lips parted. “Oh,” he breathed. _Love._ Crowley was in love. There was a man in his car that had always been there and always would be there. Someone his polar opposite, and yet… They were one and the same. He looked at Aziraphale in a new light. When those green eyes locked with his, soft and vulnerable, he couldn’t contain the flood of affection that broke from the dam and spilled over him. “Azzi, angel,” he managed. “I…”

            “Angel?” Aziraphale almost fainted. “We’re…?”

            “Lovers,” Crowley finished.

            They stared at one another for a long time. A lot was happening. Not only had they been dropped into these bodies with no idea of what to do with them, they’d immediately met their soulmate, and now they were sitting in a beautiful car in the heart of London with nothing but the keys and the overwhelming urge to snog. Their hearts were clutched with the black hand of terror. What, they wondered, had happened? Aziraphale resisted the urge to grab this dark, handsome man by the collar and kiss him with every fiber of his being. He turned as red as a tomato all the way to the roots of his blond hair. “You’re sure?” He whispered.

            “You felt it, didn’t you?!” Crowley accused him. “You just didn’t say anything!”

            “I’m a coward!” Aziraphale yelped. “Be gentle with me!”

            Crowley motioned to himself. “Of course. How could you resist this?” He grinned.

            The angel dragged a hand down his face. “What’ve I done?”

            “And you, my soft angel,” Crowley crooned. “Come here, would you?”

            “No!” Aziraphale dodged a kiss. “We’ve only just met!”

            “But…!”

            “I said _no!_ ” The angel huffed. “Take me to dinner first, at the _very_ least!”

            “A classy lady, hm?” Crowley laughed. “Fine.” He cranked the car, and immediately the car began to sing, _“Can anybody find me… somebody to… love?”_ Cackling, Crowley shifted into gear and put the gas pedal to the floor, Queen blasting, and the angel gripped his seatbelt and hoped to God that his lover wasn’t going to get them killed immediately.

            Aziraphale found a wallet in his pocket with a lot more money than he’d anticipated inside. They stopped at a Thai restaurant. Thankfully, Crowley had managed to get them there in one piece. He was having far too much fun weaving in and out of traffic, popping wheelies and the like, and Aziraphale was as white as a sheet when they finally sat at their table. The angel’s shaky hand rattled the water glass as he lifted it to his lips.

            “Come on, you didn’t die, did you?” Crowley teased.

            “You drive like a maniac,” Aziraphale snapped.

            Grinning, Crowley leaned back in his chair. “I like you.”

            “Shut up.”

            “I do!”

            “Listen,” Aziraphale sighed. “I like you very much, but I can’t well imagine how any of this happened. We both lost our memories in the same place, at the same time? How is that possible?”

            Crowley peered at the menu. “I thought I already said that we probably got hit by a bus or something?”

            “A bus?” Aziraphale stared at him. “Crowley, we’re both entirely unharmed!”

            “… Oh. Right.”

            The waitress, a beautiful Thai girl with long black hair and a kind smile, came to greet them. They ordered a lot of food considering they didn’t know what anything was going to taste like – still foggy on food - and she retreated looking pleased as punch; a big bill meant a big tip. She brought them hot tea and two teacups, and the second that Aziraphale put the cup to his lips, he felt a flood of relief. He looked at Crowley wryly. “We should ask someone.”

            “About what?”

            “About us.”

            Crowley looked at him incredulously. “Azzi, you’re serious?”

            “Of course! Someone might actually know who we are!”

            “Only if they approached us,” Crowley pointed out. “We can’t just go asking strangers. We’re hardly more than strangers now.”

            “Then what _do_ we do?” Aziraphale demanded.

            Crowley smiled at the waitress as she brought them shrimp spring rolls wrapped in clear rice paper. “We eat.”

            And so they did. All sorts of new things were eaten that day. Once they were done chatting, and drinking tea, and polishing off plates of Thai food, they decided to make an elegant exit. Aziraphale gave the waitress a very big tip when he paid the bill and he followed Crowley out into the street to the Bentley. The angel slid nervously into the passenger’s seat. “Please do go the speed limit,” he begged.

            “Fine,” Crowley sighed, shooting him a smile. “Anything for you, angel.”

            Aziraphale flushed. “Really, Crowley,” he huffed.

            They were silent during the drive home. Nothing seemed familiar. Crowley somehow knew the roads by muscle memory, so he didn’t fight it, but he felt nothing at each corner, each building they passed, and he didn’t like that. A city should feel like your own body once you’ve lived there long enough. They even passed Aziraphale’s bookshop and neither one of them recognized it. It left them both feeling rather empty. When they pulled up to Crowley’s building, they walked in together, and just before the elevator doors closed, Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley’s hand for comfort. He squeezed it just once. Crowley wiggled his fingers until they were meshed with the angel’s, and they avoided looking at one another until they reached Crowley’s floor.

            Step by step, they walked together down the hall. Aziraphale was terrified to let go of his demon. He felt as though he might dissipate into nothing and vanish forever, never to know who he’d once been, and never to be anyone new. Crowley felt his urgency to be grounded. Gently, he unlocked the door and pulled Aziraphale inside, not once letting him go. When the door shut behind them, Crowley turned to him. He didn’t need to say anything. Aziraphale’s eyes softened. He let go of Crowley’s hand, and the demon wrapped him in a tight hug, arms around his neck. He pushed his nose into Aziraphale’s cheek. It felt, to his body, as though he’d gone a long time without touching anyone, and a rush of endorphins made him feel quite dizzy.

            Aziraphale hadn’t had any contact with anyone, ever. He’d felt a flood of overwhelming love at just the touch of Crowley’s hand, and now in his arms he felt like he’d been drowning for a long, long time, and finally someone had tossed him a lifejacket. His knees were weak. Circling his arms around Crowley, he used his body to steady himself. Crowley’s scent washed over him; brimstone and cologne, leather and something… softer. A musk. The angel inhaled him deeply. Yes. Here, he knew, he was safe from disappearing.

            “You’ll be alright,” Crowley whispered against his skin, and tears welled up in the eyes of the angel. “I’ll make sure of it.”

            “Thank you,” Aziraphale sniffed.

            Crowley held him tighter. “Can I kiss you?”

            “Sorry, but… no, not yet.”

            “It’s alright.”

            They stood together locked in an embrace for what seemed like a thousand years. When they finally did pull apart, Crowley carded his fingers through the angel’s blond hair, thumbing tears from his tired eyes. Aziraphale fussed at him. But it only made the demon smile.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My username has changed from methuselahsattemptatlife to Methuselah87, the pseudonym I've had since 2008. Yes, I'm much older than you. Yes, it's both the best and worst thing imaginable. No, you cannot ask me about it, lest I turn to dust. Enjoy your dirty chapter.

            A sterile white room that seemed to go on forever surrounded Aziraphale. The air was cold and dry. The light was too bright and hurt his eyes - no matter where he looked, he couldn’t see passed it. He spun around but there was seemingly no end to the room, let alone any doors. His breath became labored. Whispering voices coming from thin air tickled his ears, ghostly hands pulling at his clothes _. “Our Father who art in heaven…”_ one said. _“Hail Mary full of grace…”_ said another. _“God?”_ Said a third. _“God, where is mommy? Why won’t they let me see her? God… I wanna go home… what’s under the white sheet on the bed? They won’t let me see… I just wanna go home…”_

            Aziraphale grabbed his head. “Make it stop,” he begged. “The prayers… they’re not _for_ me!”

_“ Dear God, please kill my little sister… she’s taking all of mummy’s love, and I don’t like her anymore…”_

_“… Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven…”_

            “Please!” Aziraphale called. “I can’t help them – _She_ has to! It has to be _Her!_ ”

_“Are you there?”_

_“Can’t you hear me?”_

_“I want her gone…”_

_“Can’t you help us?”_

            “No!” Suddenly a heavy hand landed on Aziraphale’s shoulder and there was a terrifying force bearing down on him. When he looked up it was a man in a well-tailored suit with cold, eerie blue eyes, gripping his shoulder as though he were trying to escape. Aziraphale’s insides turned to ice at the mere sight of him. He panicked.

 _“Traitor,”_ came a booming voice and a toothy scowl.

 _“HELP ME, CROWLEY!”_ Aziraphale cried out desperately.

            “Azzi - !” Said a muffled voice.

            Warm hands pushed the dream away, pulling him close under the covers. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. He was looking at the darkness of Crowley’s flat as blankets rushed by him. Sucking air into his lungs made him feel light-headed, so he allowed Crowley’s hands to draw him in, pressing himself into Crowley’s chest. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon. His body was trembling violently from the memories of the dream. He inhaled Crowley’s scent to ground himself, feeling Crowley’s fingers in his hair and his soft voice of comfort in his ear.

            “Azzi - angel, darling,” The demon whispered drowsily. “Whatever is the matter?”

            “Dream,” Aziraphale managed. His voice shook.

            Crowley kissed his hair. “It’s all over now, don’t worry. I’m here.”

            Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly. “Yes. You are.” He hugged Crowley tightly, to the demon’s surprise. “Thank you,” he whispered.

            Silent, stricken, Crowley held Aziraphale in his arms for a long time before either of them managed to fall asleep again. Even then, it was the angel who slept. The soothing rub of Crowley’s hands on his back lulled him into a deep, restful slumber, and eventually the demon felt the evenness of his breath and relaxed enough to rest himself.

 

* * *

 

 

            Hours later, the morning light peeked gently through Crowley’s black curtains. They began to wake at the same time. Crowley stretched and groaned, his black wife beater sliding up his stomach, and his boxers rumpled. Aziraphale yawned and rubbed his tired eyes. He was just in a white t-shirt and plain red boxers. As Aziraphale sat up, Crowley ran a hand through his red hair, watching his soft figure. “You had a pretty bad dream last night.”

            “Yes.” Aziraphale sighed as it flooded back to him. “It was just awful. I was trapped in some white room. Then a man – or a monster – called me a traitor in this horrid voice. It was terrifying.”

            Crowley reached over and touched his knee. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen you like that before. It must’ve been frightening.” He paused. “Was it a memory?”

            Aziraphale looked at him, surprised at the idea. “I hope not. I was hearing… prayers.”

            “Prayers?”

            “Yes, people who were praying to God. I could hear them.”

            Crowley’s lips parted. “Weird.”

            “You… you saved me from it. I couldn’t wake up.” Aziraphale gave the attractive demon a subtle once-over, meeting his yellow eyes with guarded affection. “Thank you for that.”

            “’Course.” Crowley smiled. “What are lovers for?”

            “Crowley, really,” Aziraphale protested in a gentle tone. “We’ve only slept nearby one another one time.”

            “Technically two times,” Crowley pointed out, extending his hand over the flesh of Aziraphale’s legs suggestively. He quirked an eyebrow.

            “Right. Two times.” Aziraphale swallowed hard.

            Crowley bit his lip. “Come on. Can’t I kiss you… just this once?” He sat up and flexed his body as he did so, leaning in close to Aziraphale with a hand on the angel’s chest. He was all bedhead and sleepy lips, and the way he was glancing at Aziraphale’s mouth made the angel break out in a hot sweat. “Why not make things official?”

            Aziraphale was stiff with desire. Right here, right now, Crowley was his only safe haven – the only place that he really belonged in the world. In his bed, warm with the scent, sight, and feel of him, the thought of making love to Crowley was more enticing than all of the money in the world could ever be. He had the overwhelming urge to run his hands all over Crowley’s body, to pin him down, to taste him in heat, and it burned deep down in his belly like a need… not a want. His heartbeat quickened. Blood rushed to his face.

             “Oh, _Crowley_ ,” the angel breathed shakily. “You tempt me so.”

            Then Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the front of his shirt and kissed him. Crowley melted. He ran his black-painted nails over the back of Aziraphale’s shirt, pulling the man down on top of him in bed, and Aziraphale pinned him with his weight. He pushed their bodies together hungrily. Feeling weak in the knees - and everywhere else, for that matter - made Crowley far more submissive than he normally felt. He felt a rush of lust when Aziraphale pinned his wrists to the bed. Their mouths moved together, inexperienced but excited, and then Aziraphale felt something pressing into his pelvis. He wondered then if Crowley had another hand - but in fact, it was another member of his entirely. Instinctively the angel reached for it.

            “Wait,” Crowley gasped as Aziraphale’s soft, warm hand brushed his genitals. He didn’t recall this, but he’d conjured them a thousand years ago just to see what it was like to have them and now, despite not knowing this, he _did_ feel how sensitive they were. He tensed against the waves of pleasure that snapped through him like a whip. The built-up tension in his body in anticipation for this moment gathered all in one place as Aziraphale’s hand closed around the outline in Crowley’s boxers. The demon moaned. He had never touched himself, or touched anyone else – never seeing the need for it – so he was as sensitive as a teenage boy. That was not his proudest personal secret. Aziraphale had never touched anyone’s genitals before, but he knew how they worked from books and stories, so he did his best to stroke his lover gently. His hand had barely pumped Crowley’s length twice before the demon came, his entire body heaving with adrenaline and orgasmic ecstasy, a wet stain marking where the tip was. Aziraphale tightened his grip, making Crowley whimper sensuously.

            The feeling of the angel’s weight on him, the ecstasy of the orgasm, and the tender lust of the kiss had Crowley in the throes of love. He was dizzy with it. “Fuck me,” he whispered softly against Aziraphale’s lips. “Fuck me, angel.”

            “Only if you’re good,” Aziraphale breathed.

            Crowley moaned. “Please,” he begged.

            Aziraphale pinned both of Crowley’s wrists over his head with one hand and used the other to pull him by the hair, kissing him deeply. Crowley begged him with his body over and over, rolling his lean body desperately into Aziraphale’s hold, his genitals still ringing with climax. The angel was so much stronger and firmer in lust than he’d imagined. It was such a turn-on. If Crowley loved anything, it was someone taking charge of him, making him come, making him do things… A few minutes passed before he was hard again. But it didn’t last long. The angel touched him in just the right places, and rubbed him just the right way to make him come a second time, and Crowley fucked into it, hard, stars exploding in his vision.

 

* * *

 

 

            Aziraphale put the kettle on. He sat at the table in a black robe – all Crowley had was black – and picked up a pear as he waited for the water to boil. He sank his teeth into the tender fruit with vigor. The flavor alone rejuvenated him.

            “Wish you’d bite me like that.” Crowley strode in, looking absolutely spent, and flopped into the seat across from his angel. “If you were to bite my throat, my God…” He felt a sharp pain at the word _God_. “I’d come at once.”

            Aziraphale blushed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I had no idea it would be like that.”

            “Me either.” Crowley sipped a glass of water. “I’m in shock. You were so…” He gave a vague hand motion. “Forward. I’m impressed… _Very_ impressed.”

            “ _You_ tempted me into it,” Aziraphale grumbled.

            “Did not!” Crowley exclaimed. “I tempted you into a _kiss!_ Now the wrist holding, the hard hand jobs - _that_ was all you!” He groaned in nostalgia. “I do wish you’d fuck me, though.”

            “You’re still not satisfied?!”

            “Never.” Crowley smirked over his glass at Aziraphale. “I could come a thousand times, in a thousand ways, but I will _not_ be satisfied until you _fuck me_.”

            Aziraphale turned red. “B-But…!” He stammered.

            “What is it? Don’t want to?”

            “It’s not that!”

            “Then what?” Crowley put his water glass aside, looking the angel over curiously. “Too shy?”

            “No.” Aziraphale calmed himself. “I haven’t… got one.”

            Crowley looked at him dumbly. “One what?”

            “A willy,” Aziraphale burst. Shame crumpled his face. “I haven’t… got anything.”

            Crowley’s eyebrows flew up. “You _what?_ ”

            “I’m… nothing.”

            “That’s quite odd.”

            “Indeed.”

            The tea kettle whistled, and the angel was relieved for the distraction. He poured them both tea, and they sat drinking in silence, wondering how on earth one fucked without a willy.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley was walking the city to clear his head. His hands in his pockets, his hair about his shoulders, and his sunglasses black as pitch, he sauntered through the crowds of people vaguely knowing where he was headed. It was about mid-morning. The sun was behind a thick veil of clouds, but the air was crisp and cool, easy on the lungs. Crowley strode passed the entrance to the park and paused. _Why,_ he wondered, _do I feel drawn here?_ He turned to look at the great metal sign overhead. Just another park. Still.

The well-worn pathways took him along their snaking backs to a bit by the river, where a few swans were floating menacingly by as children tossed them bits of bread crust. The demon perched on a nearby boulder. He leaned his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together as he did. Somehow, this place felt familiar to him. Maybe he’d been here before. Maybe he’d been many times. He sighed in lament to his lost memory, watching a black swan and a white swan circle one another in a show of affection. Maybe he and Azzi were like those swans; inexplicably drawn together by fate, or the magnetism of the universe or whatever, destined to fall in love. Forever in a dance.

Crowley touched his shirtfront. Just this morning, Azzi had ghosted his fingertips across his chest and left a honeysuckle kiss on his lips, and it’d been like a breath of fresh air from the grave. His heart ached for that man. If only he could remember who they were. Then he could properly figure out where they were going.

“Mr. Crowley?”

Turning, Crowley lifted an eyebrow as an old Scottish man strode over, looking quite old fashioned. “Yes? Do you know me?”

Mr. Shadwell – a witch hunting old coot – with his wild blue eyes and frizzy grey hair, approached Crowley, his brown shoes parting the grass as he left the pathways of the park. “But of course! You employee me regularly, don’t you recall?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t.” A lightbulb appeared over Crowley’s head. He bounded to his feet, startling the man. “Tell me!” He cried. “Tell me everything that you know!”

“A-About what, Mr. Crowley?” Shadwell stammered. His feral boss had always kept their interactions to a minimum, and this display of enthusiasm was quite out of character.

“Listen to me,” Crowley hissed. “I’ve lost my memory – all of it! I need you to tell me everything that you know about me. Who are you? Who am I? Where do I come from?”

Shadwell was taken aback. “Lost your memory?! Are you joshing me?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Well,” Shadwell grumbled. “My name is… Shadwell. I’m the head of a witch hunting army!” He declared. “And… last you hired me, I had collected some information about…” He wrinkled his nose. “Some man with white hair.”

“White hair, you say, Shadwell?”

“Indeed. He was snooping around a church nearby when you were trying to steal some holy water, sir.”

Crowley stared at him. “Why on earth would I do that?”

Shadwell just shrugged. “Not my business to ask, sir.”

“But the holy water’s free!” Crowley exclaimed. “You can’t steal something that’s for free!”

“It… wasn’t my business.”

“Tell me what you learned about this man.”

“Which one?”

“With the white hair, of course!”

“Oh!” Shadwell thought hard. “I learned he had a bookshop in Soho called A.Z. Fell and Company.”

“Really?” Crowley put his hands on his hips. “Anything else?”

“Er… no, sir.”

“That’s all you got?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not a very good detective, are we?”

Shadwell frowned. “It was enough for you, sir.”

Crowley eyed him. “Right. Is there anything else you can tell me? I mean, about myself?”

“You’re quite rich. You seem to dislike the fellow in white. And… if I’m not mistaken, you’re a demon.”

“I’M A _WHAT?!_ ”

“A demon,” Shadwell repeated matter-of-factly. “You’ve been the same age since I was a boy. Over my many years of service, you’ve employed me many a time, Mr. Crowley. I think you mentioned once about ‘demons don’t hold shindigs’ or something to that effect.”

Crowley’s stomach dropped. A demon? Him? No way. “I don’t believe you. Who even are you, anyway? Some nutter?” He snapped. “Go on, get out of here!”

“But sir-”

“I said GET OUT!” Crowley boomed.

Shadwell bolted. Crowley could barely see the red of his kilt in seconds flat. Turning to the river, Crowley put his hands on his hips, heaving in anger, and noticed that his yelling had disturbed the wildlife. There wasn’t a swan in sight. At once, Crowley headed to a telephone booth to call Azzi, but when he picked up the phone he realized that he’d forgotten his home number. “Damn it all!” He growled, slamming the phone back onto the cradle. Instead, he hailed a cab, and headed back to his flat.

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale was perusing the books in Crowley’s flat and listening to his tape deck when the demon burst through the front door, out of breath. He turned in shock to see Crowley bent over double. “My dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Bookshop,” Crowley gasped. “Soho!”

Corralling him into the taxi, Crowley took him to A.Z. Fell and Co. in Soho, London, not six minutes from where Crowley’s flat was. They climbed out onto the curb and stared up at the great building in awe. Aziraphale touched his pockets. There was a key in one of them. He pulled it out and tried it in the door, and the lock gave way immediately. The couple exchanged an enchanted look. Inside, the bookshop was a proper mess. Aziraphale went to the desk up front and Crowley began to wander the shelves curiously, both of them looking for clues.

“That’s a lot of biblical texts,” Crowley muttered. An entire wall of bibles towered over him. He chose one at random and began to flip through it. _Demon?_ He thought absently to himself. _Can’t be._

Aziraphale looked through the papers. “These certainly feel like mine.” He lifted a receipt for the water bill. “Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried. “That’s been on the tip of my tongue since yesterday!”

“What is it?”

“Your _name!_ ”

            Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “Aziraphale?! What kind of name is that?!” He paused. “Oh. Mine.” He flushed. “How odd!”

            “Wait.” Crowley turned the bible pages until he spotted something. “Come look at this!”

            Aziraphale joined him, leaning over his shoulder. “What is it?”

            Crowley pointed to a line in the bible. It read, ‘ _The angel Aziraphale stood on the walls of Eden, having just given his flaming sword to Adam and his pregnant wife Eve, and lo and behold alongside him appeared a great black serpent, which then transformed into the demon Crowley, with long red hair and yellow eyes like a serpent. And from his serpents lips, he said, “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”’_

            The couple stared at it. The rest was about Adam and Eve, and God even, but that small bit with their names really fried their brains. “I’m no angel,” Aziraphale protested. “This must be the origin of our names.”

            “And I’m no demon!” Crowley said. “I’m nicer than anything!”

            “No one said you were.” Aziraphale took the bible and shut it, replacing it on the shelf. “I think we’d better look elsewhere for clues.”

            The bills all said Aziraphale Fell, the first-edition books did, too, where the author had signed them, and there was nothing else except an empty flat over the shop and a tea kettle. So, Aziraphale set about making tea. He sighed. “I can’t believe it. My own book shop.”

            “I know.” Crowley felt a stab of pain. He slowly slid off his glasses. “Will you… be staying here, then?”

            Aziraphale turned to him, and their eyes met. “I don’t know.” The angel flushed, looking off. “I feel like I belong here.”

            “You belong with me,” Crowley protested.

            “Crowley, darling, of course I do. But…” Aziraphale sat down in the armchair. “I can’t live at your flat. It’s just not for me.” He paused. “You could… stay here, with me. I’ve plenty of room.”

            Crowley turned red. “Can I?”

            “Of course!” Aziraphale smiled. “I can’t go on without my only companion, can I?”

            “Your only lover,” Crowley corrected, and they laughed. He sauntered over and sat in the angel’s lap, crossing his long legs. “I could get used to this, I suppose. I wonder why we don’t live together already?”

            Aziraphale clutched Crowley by the hips. “I’m not sure. Commitment issues?”

            Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe we’re not involved yet. Or at least… we weren’t.”

            They kissed softly, tenderly, and Aziraphale felt dizzy. “Anything is possible.”

            The tea kettle whistled. Aziraphale got up and made them both a cup of tea, and they sat chatting long into the evening, wondering at things and guessing at others. They eventually got hungry and went to dinner. Locking up shop, Aziraphale put the key snugly in his pocket and, walking arm in arm with Crowley, headed out to explore the streets of Soho. Little did he know that a certain angel was hovering on the curb looking for him, his blue eyes cold as ice and his jaw line cut from stone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry

            “You did WHAT?!”

            Berith popped a grape into his mouth. “What’s it matter? He was going to muck it up anyhow.”

            Gabriel paced the hotel suite, hands on his hips, jacket flaps thrown back. “Crowley can’t tie his shoes without Aziraphale’s help. If they mess this thing up with Warlock, we’re all done for!” He whirled on Berith. “What if it affected the both of them?!”

            Berith shrugged nonchalantly. “What’s it matter?”

            Gabriel grabbed his hair. “NEVER AGAIN do I trust a demon to do anything right!”

            “Your loss,” Berith muttered. “What’d you want to happen, anyway?”

            “AZIRAPHALE was supposed to lose his memory, and Crowley was supposed to make the child EVIL!” Gabriel burst. “I TOLD YOU THIS!”

            “Oh, I forgot,” Berith lied. Truth be told, he didn’t give a damn either way. He had work to do elsewhere. Getting up off the couch, he wiped his hands on his shirtfront. “I’ll be going.”

            “NO!” Gabriel roared, grabbing him and pinning him against the wall, blue eyes burning, face red as a tomato. Berith was oddly aroused. “You are going to fix this. Now.”

            Berith eyed him. “You want me to give them the other box?”

            “Does it reverse this mess?”

            “…Yes.”

            Gabriel released him angrily. “You hesitated. Why did you hesitate?”

            “I was hoping you’d stab me next.” Berith sighed. No one ever stabbed him these days. “Fine. I’ll get the other box. But YOU have to be the one to give it to them. They don’t know me anymore – but you look like a stand-up American. They’ll trust you.”

            Gabriel looked at him like he was crazy. “The Brits hate us.”

            “Not the stupid ones.” Berith took a handful of grapes and stuffed them into his grimy pocket on his way out the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow with the box.”

            In the elevator, getting funny looks from the nicely dressed patrons, Berith popped grapes into his mouth and tried to scheme up a good way to get stabbed.

 

 

* * *

 

           

 

          Crowley and Aziraphale were staring at a box on the small nightstand by the armchair. Both of them held a glass of red wine in their hands and both of them lifted their goblets, taking a sip at the same time. Neither looked eager to open the elongated box. It was dark outside the small window over the desk and they were already full, tipsy, and ruffled. Tensions were high.

          The angel cleared his throat awkwardly. “Will you… will you open it, please, Crowley?”

          “Not _for_ me, Aziraphale,” Crowley mumbled, taking another sip.

          “Please, darling?”

          “Don’t do that. You know it makes me weak.”

          “I know that… my darling.”

          Crowley gave him a sassy look. Aziraphale looked at his lover with puppy dog eyes. Sighing, Crowley chugged his wine and got up, grabbing the box. He sat back down with his knees open, tearing angrily at the plastic seals and tossing the trash aside as though it would taint his hands. Finally, there was just a Styrofoam block with a strap-on in his lap. He felt a thrill throughout his entire body. “It’s big.”

          “You’re right.” Shaking, Aziraphale put aside his glass. “Should we…?”

          “I’d wash it.”

          “Right.”

          Both of them stared at it without moving. They’d agreed to get something discreetly in order to facilitate sex, but neither of them had been ready for exactly what “facilitate” really meant. It was definitely not an ideal situation. But Aziraphale was sexless.

          “What if…” Crowley put the thing aside gingerly. “We just went without? For now.”

          “Yes, fine,” Aziraphale sighed in relief.

          “But you’d still better wash it. Just in case.”

          Aziraphale made a face. “Oh, alright!” He got up in a huff. It took him an agonizing amount of time to get the strap-on out of the casing. When he finally did, he carried it delicately by the strap, heading into the kitchen area.

          Crowley sighed as he watched the angel storm off. He poured himself another glass of wine and followed him into the kitchen, watching him from the doorway with one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around his glass. Aziraphale had folded his coat carefully and put it aside after dinner. Now he was rolling up the sleeves of his button-up, exposing his forearms and the thick blond hair there, soft and untouched. His strong hands held the cock part of the strap-on under the warm water. He got soap from the dispenser and began to stroke the dildo’s black length, washing it thoroughly. Crowley took a gulp of wine. Heat was building in his belly. Sliding the glass onto the countertop as he walked up, Crowley used both hands to wrap Aziraphale in an embrace from behind.

          “You’re so good to me,” he said into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

          Blushing, the angel continued to scrub. “I’m not so. In fact…” He rinsed the dildo and dried it carefully with a paper towel. “I feel I need to do much more for you. This is… a start.”

          Crowley unbuttoned Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “You do plenty.”

          Aziraphale’s heart began to pound. He grabbed the countertop as Crowley began to undo his shirt. “C-Crowley…”

          “Shhh,” Crowley whispered. He untucked Aziraphale’s last undershirt and ran his hands over his bare flesh beneath it. His fingertips dug into Aziraphale’s body. “I need you.”

          A quivering moan escaped Aziraphale as Crowley pulled off his bowtie. He turned and allowed Crowley to remove his many layers. When his undershirt was over his head and on the floor, he kissed his lover, working at Crowley’s buttons. He wore nothing beneath his loose blazer and v-neck. Shirtless, ravenous, they embraced, chest to chest and flesh to flesh. Crowley’s member pressed hard into Aziraphale.

          Crowley raked his nails along Aziraphale’s back. “I want to do things to you.”

          Aziraphale pulled off Crowley’s sunglasses and put them aside, looking him in the eye. “You can do them,” he said, “when I let you.” Aziraphale didn’t like not wearing clothes normally, but when someone took them off for him, he felt much less vulnerable and more… empowered. Because someone… someone wanted to see him like this. Crowley bared his teeth. He was chomping at the bit, but Aziraphale held him back. The angel’s eyes were hard. “Show me,” he ordered.

          Eyes flickering, Crowley grinned. He stepped back two paces, hips swaying, bare in all his slender glory, and obeyed, unzipping his jeans. He hissed teasingly. His hand slithered into his pants. Clutching the bulge there, the tip stained with pre-cum, he massaged it, pleasure passing over his face like a cloud. His chest hair was in a soft T between his dark nipples, a trail of curls vanishing below the waist of his briefs.

          Aziraphale had no idea what came over him when he was like this with Crowley. Here he stood, half naked in front of another man, rigid with sexual tension. There was something passionate and feral about the sexual feelings that gripped him in the presence of Crowley’s allure. His hands itched to close around Crowley’s throat. His teeth itched for the flesh of his throat. It was exhilarating; it reminded him of how humans had the urge to strangle things that were too adorable for them to comprehend. Crowley was, to Aziraphale, too sexually appealing to comprehend. He felt the desire to control him. To torture him for it.

          “Take them off,” Crowley breathed, jerking his chin at Aziraphale’s trousers.

          “No talking.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Stop when you’re almost there.”

          Crowley’s eagerly pushed down the waistband of his briefs and grasped himself, bare handed. His eyes fluttered closed. He grasped himself a bit too tight, squeezed the tip a little too tight, but his strokes were nice and even. His body began to flush. Chest heaving, Crowley bit his lip, working himself in ways only he knew how.

          Aziraphale was enraptured.

          “Almost there,” Crowley managed.

          “Stop,” Aziraphale said. Crowley obeyed sheepishly, his member red and curving upward, twitching as he released it. Both breathing heavily, they stood for just a second, staring at each other in ravishing love. The angel took a breath. “What do you want me to do?”

          “Finish me,” Crowley said immediately. “However you want.”

          Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. A lightning bulb went off in his head. His _throat!_ Stepping forward, he swept Crowley up into his arms and carried him to the couch, laying him down gently, throbbing member and all. He pinned Crowley’s hands over his head on the arm of the couch and the angel used his other hand to hold Crowley’s member in place as he lowered his mouth onto it.

          Crowley sucked in a breath as a tongue rolled over his member, tasting him, seeing how this was going to happen. When lips closed around him, Crowley knew he was going to lose his mind. He struggled in futility against Aziraphale’s strong grasp on his wrists, desperate to push his head down. “Harder,” he begged, the ripples of pleasure and desire tearing through him.

They’d been talking about how to handle… well, this… and Crowley had been very specific about what he wanted. It was the angel’s job to do the slightest bit of that until Crowley was ready to burst. Lightly, Aziraphale teased him, rubbing the base with his fingers. Groans and moans escaped Crowley at an alarming rate. He’d been ready to climax before. Now the feeling came and went, taunting him. He could barely stand it. Grinding his hips into it, Crowley writhed, forcing Aziraphale to take him deeper.

          The angel tightened his mouth. That feeling came back to Crowley in full force. His tip hit the back of the angel’s throat and he came, nostrils flaring, body arching, pleasure hitting him like a firecracker and rolling over him in heavy waves. He saw stars. His member throbbed in pleasure. Aziraphale finished him off and released him. He sat back against the armchair, panting, disheveled and exhilarated as he watched his lover slacken. Crowley’s cock lay to one side, exhausted. His eyes rolled closed.

          For a minute, they just sat panting, gathering their strength to speak. There was no sound besides the passing of cars outside and their labored breathing. After a minute, Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

          “Not done, are you?” The angel asked tentatively.

          Crowley cracked a smile, eyes still closed. “For you? Never.”


End file.
